


January-December

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Deaf Character, Depression, Extreme lack of Harry, Like no Harry at all, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 01:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7993285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall fell in love with the moon, and maybe that was his first mistake.</p><p>Zayn is like the moon. He always has a part of himself hidden away where no one else can find. But Niall is like the sun. He is bright, and open, and ready to shed light on those who need it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	January-December

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hi, hello. I wrote a one-shot like this a million years ago and now I've decided to come back and rewrite it so that it's prettier and easier to stomach. The original copy was absolute shit and so I hope that this one will do this idea better. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> find me at zialljhorlik on tumblr :)

**I. JANUARY**

Niall stares out the window of their bedroom as the snow falls gently; carding long, skinny fingers through dark colored hair, taking extra time to scratch his blunt nails across his husband's scalp, if only to hear the soft purr like noises that make their way up his throat and out through his pink, plump, parted lips. He’s still asleep, which is a good thing. He spends most nights awake focusing on painting the things that he cannot hear with colors that nobody has ever seen.

_A cerulean shade for Niall’s laugh, deep maroon for his Irish brogue, a bright, sunny yellow for the notes that come from him strumming his guitar._

If Niall could draw, he would draw Zayn with sharp lines and edges. He would use dark coal pencils and smudge out the spaces where Zayn’s pretty, pretty, pretty cheeks hollowed out. But Niall can’t draw. Niall can make another form of art, though. Niall makes music, music for Zayn, that Zayn will never get to hear.

_“Oh, I wish I could be more, I could be more, I could be more.”_

He adjusts his position, trying not to jostle the man in his arms hard enough to wake him, and turns to stare at him instead. Niall doesn’t have to be an artist to know that Zayn is a masterpiece. His long, dark lashes that cast shadows across his high cheekbones; his olive toned skin with the many scattering sunspots across his nose and the apples of his cheeks; his petite frame and awkwardly broad shoulders. There isn’t a single thing about Zayn that Niall does not love.

Trisha is in the kitchen downstairs, clattering pots and pans together, no doubt preparing breakfast for the family, pancakes, eggy bread and fruit. There won’t be any bacon because the Malik’s don’t eat pork and well, Niall is a Malik, after all.

Zayn moves, letting out a grunt in his sleep, his full brows pulling together as he rolls onto his side, his right arm falling against his mattress from where it was previously resting on his chest. There is a jumbled mess of thick white and pink, puckered scars that start at his wrist and don’t end until they meet his antecubital space. Niall knows that his left arm mirrors this one, and he sighs, closing his eyes as he bites back the painful ache that’s rising from his stomach to his chest. He feels nauseous as he remembers that sleep is the only place his boy feels at peace, and even still not even there, sometimes.

 _I dream of your voice,_ Zayn would sign. _I dream of hearing you singing to me again one day._

Niall knows that can’t, _won’t,_ happen. Even if they had the money for them, Zayn isn’t compatible with cochlear implants. Zayn will never hear again. Zayn would rather die.

Niall pulls him closer, pressing his nose into his hair and breathing him in. He smells like stale cigarettes and cinnamon spice and _home._ _Zayn_ is Niall’s _home._

“Happy birthday,” Niall whispers into the empty air. Zayn rolls onto his back and looks up at Niall through heavy lids, amber eyes dull and so, so empty.

 

* * *

 

**II. FEBRUARY**

****  
The snow is melting and Niall feels like he might be, too.

Zayn goes through packs of Marlboro reds so quickly that he’s started to smell like a chimney and an ashtray and Niall thinks that maybe _he’s_ gotten addicted to nicotine secondhand from tasting it on Zayn’s tongue so often. He can’t get enough of it, and he longs to tell Zayn that when he’s pressing him into the mattress, their hips grinding together filthily, _harder, harder, harder_ so that Zayn can _feel_ something, _finally._

Zayn paints himself with grays, a million different variations, and color psychology says that Zayn is protecting himself from the world around him and that every shade of gray is another level of his sadness. Even if Zayn could get his point across properly, even if he could tell Niall what it is that’s tearing him apart from the inside out, he doesn’t think that he would. Zayn’s demons didn’t play nice together, Niall knew. He’s too afraid they’ll be even tougher on Niall’s.

And so even though he desperately wants to, Niall doesn’t bring it up, he just tries to be there for his boy as much as he can. There’s only so much that he can do when he coils in on himself, Niall’s words of comfort falling on deaf ears. In those moments Zayn’s eyes are clouded with so many tears that he can’t possibly see Niall’s fingers signing to him quickly, _it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay._

It’s not okay. Niall doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t for a very long time.

He watches as Zayn plays in what is left of the snow, his hands shielded from the freezing cold by holy mittens, his cheeks and nose a stark pink that contrasts with his tanned skin painfully beautifully. Pink is the color of optimism, but boy is Zayn a pessimist. The freshly stitched wounds and hospital bracelet still on his wrist are a clear indication of that much.

 

* * *

 

**III. MARCH**

Niall wakes alone in bed and the mattress is cold, which means that Zayn has been gone a long time without Niall watching over him. The blonde wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he’s just been released from the emergency room with a new prescription for Zoloft and half of the bottle has already gone missing, so Niall climbs out of bed, hissing when the freezing wood beneath his feet raises the hair on his forearms with goosebumps, and makes his way quietly to the bathroom where the light is peaking out just beneath the slit in the door.

Niall can hear Zayn crying, and the noise has started to sound foreign to his ears, because no matter how many times they’ve been here in this same situation, Niall knows most everything about Zayn. And when Zayn is awake he never makes noise; is too embarrassed at how jumbled he knows each word that he speaks, sound that he makes will come out. It’s enough to stop him in his tracks, distracting him for a moment until he hears the all too familiar sound of pills rattling in their bottle and Zayn struggling to get the top off. Niall twists the doorknob frantically, his heart pounding in his chest, _thump, thump, thumping_ away as bile rises in his throat.

 **_Too late, too late, one day you’re gonna be too late!_ ** _Zayn signed._

Zayn can’t hear Niall pounding on the door and so he hasn’t been alerted to his presence yet, and that’s both a good and a very bad thing. He feels so alone and he doesn’t know that Niall’s right there with him, _always, never alone, Zee._ It’s good because Niall has more time to get the door open before Zayn downs who knows how many more pills than he’s already taken. Niall can smell rust and salt and his stomach lurches as he grabs the pence stashed under the carpet, using it to unlock the door and he shoves it open as hard as he can, the corners of his mouth weighed down as he takes in the sight in front of him.

Zayn’s got two deep vertical gashes in his arms and Niall knows that this time is going to be the last time for a while because they’re not going to let Zayn out in just a couple days after this.

He makes his way towards Zayn in a daze, everything around him in slow motion as he smacks the pills out of his hands and grabs for his favorite white towels, alternating between putting pressure on one wrist and then the other to help stop the bleeding. Zayn’s going to pass out from blood loss before Niall can even look him in the eyes and let him know that he forgives him.

He pulls his phone out of his pajama pants, putting it to his ear after he’s dialed for an ambulance, and Zayn sniffles, his shoulders slumping as he watches the red stain the white a putrid pink toned peach.

“Hello, my husband has cut his wrists open and I think he may be bleeding out. Please send help.”

 _Sorry I soiled the towels,_  Zayn signs. 

 

* * *

 

**IV. APRIL**

  
Niall fell in love with the moon, and maybe that was his first mistake.

From the day he was born he was always more in touch with the sun. He was born on one of Mullingar, Ireland’s rare sunny days, not a single cloud in the sky.

Zayn is like the moon. He always has a part of himself hidden away where no one else can find. But Niall is like the sun. He is bright, and open, and ready to shed light on those who need it.

He makes his way down the corridor, a new, fresh bouquet of daisies in his clammy hands. He twists his ring on his left hand, fourth finger nervously, shooting smiles at the patients and doctors that he passes by on his way to his room. He’s brought Zayn a few of his sweaters, making sure to sleep in each of them at least once so that Zayn could have a piece of him with him, always.

He knocks on the door out of habit, shaking his head, pale cheeks heating up as Zayn’s head remains tilted away from him, his eyes closed. His wrists are restrained to the bed and not uncommonly, Niall’s heart clenches because Wednesday's were supposed to be good days.

He moves to the other side of Zayn’s hospital bed, heading towards the chair next to it and setting the flowers beside the other three vases he had brought, their once bright petals wilted and browned, the stench of their decay looming disgustingly in the air. Zayn likes browns, they scream stability and give him a false sense of security.

Niall tosses the flowers into the bin, tying the plastic bag and setting it by his feet to take when he leaves.

He runs his knuckles across Zayn’s cheek before tracing his thumb along the dark circles beneath his sunken in eyes, his face composed as best as he can get it. Zayn’s lashes flutter before amber irises are staring into Niall’s blue, and all Zayn can offer is a blink. Niall signs to him that he misses him and Zayn doesn’t move, because his hands are bound and Niall can see where he’s unsteadily ripped six whole staples out from his arm from the looks of the blood stain on his off-white gauze bandage. Zayn doesn’t say anything because Zayn never says anything, and his eyes are so, so dreadfully dull.

“This is the last time.” Niall says out loud, his voice the only comfort he knows anymore. Zayn doesn’t reply because he can’t, and Niall knows that even if he could, he wouldn’t.

 

* * *

 

**V. MAY**

They have a baby girl and they name her Fatima.

Niall lets Zayn fawn over her first because it was the brightest he'd seen his eyes shine since he had lost his hearing in his left ear. The baby's piercing cries are music to Zayn and he holds her against his chest, radiating pride and love and so much warmth that Niall just has to reach out and _touch._

Now the baby girl is walking and talking and looking more and more like Zayn every day, and she's celebrating her fifth birthday without her Baba and she doesn't understand. She cries and cries and begs Niall to _please, please, I want Baba, get Baba!_ and Niall watches her hazel eyes tear up with a stone cold expression. 

Louis steps in, picking the raven haired little girl up in his arms and spinning her around, whispering soothing reassurances into her ears as his husband, Liam, tries to do the same for Niall. Niall feels his eye twitch and he balls up his fists, anger vibrating all throughout his body and he punches the wooden picnic table until his knuckles are bruised and cracked and oozing blood and puss. The kids all join in on his daughters screaming fest and there are whispers from parents who are concerned about Niall's little girl because _not only is one of her parents a total nut case, but they both are._

Niall finds himself screaming at them to _leave, how dare they talk about Zayn that way!_

Trisha and Yasser try to keep his trembling to a minimum as he pulls off his wedding ring, chucking it as far as he can, his shoulder cramping at the awful angle. He's crying in the middle of a park surrounded by practically their entire community. He has snot on his face and his eyes are stinging so bad that he could have ripped them out and they wouldn't have hurt any more.

Patricia gives Waliyha a look and she runs to go and fetch the ring before someone else can.

Louis and Liam take Fatima home with them and their son Freddie, and Niall doesn't see or hear from her for an entire week. 

 

* * *

  

**VI. JUNE**

Zayn's no longer allowed to have visitors because his doctors think that it's not beneficial for him anymore, so Niall sits out in the waiting room, holding another bouquet of some sort of flower that smells equally has disgusting as any of the others. 

 

* * *

 

**VII. JULY**

Zayn is allowed one phone call a week. His therapist talks for him and tells Niall that Zayn thinks it's time for him and their family to accept that he died the first time he tried to take his own life. 

Niall packs his bags and he and Fatima move into an apartment across the village from Zayn's family because Niall can't pretend to hear Zayn singing and laughing again in a place that he's never even been. 

Fatima stops asking for Baba and Niall stops looking out the window trying to memorize all the colors of the sunset. 

 

* * *

 

**VIII. AUGUST**

Zayn has requested that Niall pick him up on Friday so that they can pick up where they left off. His therapist wants to see him three times a week and he's on the highest dosage of pills he's ever been on and he feels okay, for the time being. 

Niall wants to rip the greasy hair right out of his head. He's all chocolate brown roots and bottle blonde tips. His jeans hang dangerously heavy on his slender hips. He looks like a walking corpse. He doesn't care.

Zayn will be home Friday. 

 

* * *

 

**IX. SEPTEMBER**

Niall's sat over a birthday cake with twenty-eight candles all lit up and dancing in front of his eyes, all of his friends and family stood around him singing happy birthday like it's some sort of special occasion to continue aging every year like every other person in the world did. 

He watches the flames as they bounce every time they're hit by someones breath, and Niall's fingers twitch, aching to reach out and touch so that he can feel. He almost raises his hand to ghost over the open flame with the tips of his fingers because if Zayn can be self destructive, isn't it okay for Niall to be, too? 

A tattooed hand reaches out to grab his wrist, and they give it a tight squeeze. Niall looks up to find Zayn holding an ecstatic Fatima on his hip, and he ignores his mothers worried eyes as he stares blankly up at them. Zayn doesn't let Niall go so that he can sign, but his eyes speak for him this time.

_Please, don't do this._

 

* * *

  

**X. OCTOBER**

Niall and Zayn walk hand in hand through the park, admiring the Halloween decorations hung from every single branch, not a single one left out. Zayn points to all of his favorites and he even smiles. 

He looks unbearably attractive in his black turtle neck and dark brown peacoat, and Niall reaches out to adjust his scarf so that he has an excuse to brush his fingers against Zayn's stubbled neck. Zayn swallows thickly, looking down at his husband with curious eyes, and they stand under an orange leaved tree in the middle of a crowded area, reacquainting themselves with each other because it's been too long and their souls have been desperate for some time to rekindle. 

Zayn reaches up and cups Niall's cheek, pressing his lips to his forehead and letting his lips linger there for a moment, warming up his pale, cold skin. Niall leans into the touch like he's thirsting to death and Zayn's kiss is like ice water. The outward affection is a sign of healing and for once, neither of them are thinking in colors, they're letting their instincts do the talking. 

 _I love you,_ Zayn signs, and Niall nods, because he knows. 

 

* * *

 

**XI. NOVEMBER**

Fatima runs her fingers over the indents on Zayn's arms; gentle touches as she observes the way the ones at the top have all turned stark white against her Baba's darker skin and the ones at the bottom have just barely turned a light red color. She furrows her brows together, looking up at her Daddy, a pout on her lips.

"Daddy," she says, and Niall startles out of his daze, her little voice quiet and surprising. Zayn hasn't opened his eyes yet, and Niall thinks that this is a conversation their smart little girl wants to have without him. 

"What is it, baby?" He asks, staying still as to not alert Zayn to their sudden talking. Fatima pushes her wavy black hair from her eyes, keeping one hand pressed to Zayn's skin as if she was afraid that if she let him go, he would disappear. 

"These booboo's, will I have these one day?" She asks so innocently that Niall feels the backs of his eyes beginning to prick with tears. Zayn's eyes are suddenly on his face and he looks like he's aged a thousand years in just a single second. Niall regretfully realizes that Zayn has read her lips, and they stare at each other, eyes locked in a battle of deciding what was best to tell their daughter.

Niall is afraid that the question is enough to trigger Zayn back into old habits. Zayn is afraid that Niall won't be comfortable with his answer. Zayn sighs, sitting up and pulling his girl into his lap, cupping her small cheeks between his palms and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

 _Baba has these scars because he didn't know how to deal with his hurt,_ he signed, and Fatima watched carefully, all her attention trained on him. _You will never feel this way because you have two fathers who know how to, now. Baba loves you so much and he's so glad to still be here with you._

Fatima frowns, but doesn't push any further, seemingly satisfied with his answer, for the moment, anyway. 

 _Can we go and get my new coat, now, Baba?_ Her small fingers work, and Zayn lets out a laugh. It's heaven in Niall's head. 

 

* * *

 

**XII. DECEMBER**

Niall stares out the window of their bedroom as the snow falls gently; carding long, skinny fingers through dark colored hair, taking extra time to scratch his blunt nails across his husband's scalp, if only to hear the soft purr like noises that make their way up his throat and out through his pink, plump, parted lips. He’s still asleep, which is a good thing. He spends most nights awake focusing on painting the things that he cannot hear with colors that nobody has ever seen.

_A royal purple for Fatima's tap shoes against the wooden floor, green for the rainfall as it hits the glass of the window, orange for Louis and Liam ringing the doorbell because they've brought over takeout._

Niall can't draw, but he can make music, music that falls deaf to Zayn's ears but not to his eyes. Niall writes his lyrics in colorful gel pens and slides the sheet music over to Zayn when he plays his guitar, now. 

_"Pay attention, I hope that you listen, cause I let my guard down. Right now I'm completely defenseless..."_

He adjusts his position, surprised to see brown eyes already staring back up at him. Fatima is sprawled out across Zayn's chest, mouth hanging open and drool soaking into his t-shirt. She had stayed up all night waiting for Santa after they had specifically instructed her not to, before she had retreated irritably into their bed after he hadn't shown up by three in the morning. She would be asleep for awhile, they both know. 

Trisha is in the kitchen downstairs, clattering pots and pans together, no doubt preparing breakfast for the family, pancakes, eggy bread and fruit. There won’t be any bacon because the Malik’s don’t eat pork and well, Niall is a Malik, after all.

Zayn smiles, his tongue pressing to the backs of his teeth, and then he puckers his lips up for a kiss, which Niall gives him without a second thought. 

"Merry Christmas," Zayn says out loud, and Niall smiles crookedly, pressing himself into his husbands free side, tucking is face into his ribs, just below his armpit. "I love you, Niall."

Niall rolls onto his side so that Zayn can see his lips, and the dark haired man looks down at him with adoration in his eyes.

"I love you, Zayn. Merry Christmas." Zayn doesn't stop smiling. Niall's heart doesn't stop soaring. 


End file.
